


tell me something

by newsbypostcard



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Communication, Intimacy, M/M, Nonverbal Communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: Yuuri pours all of his trust into the fact that Viktor Nikiforov is a razor's edge behind him, always looking out for him; always wanting him to be the best he can be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> BOY... I did not expect to get sucked in by an anime. There's so much about this show that's been so great, but the thing that's stood out to me has been the emphasis on communication in its different forms -- how Viktor and Yuuri ultimately struggle with it, despite that they have common language in erato and eros and art and form. They struggle with restraint, too -- Yuuri has too much, Viktor has very little, but both learn to give and take with it to find the other where he is. This is a bit of a study in all of that. 
> 
> I think I'll be back here again. Good.

  


  


* * *

  


  


"Tell me something, Yuuri."

Yuuri looks up; blinks to see him smiling. Viktor still startles him, sometimes. Viktor is still full of surprises.

"How is it you know how to pole dance?"

Yuuri wrenches his face away. His cheeks grow hot. He pokes at the sand with his foot in silence.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Yuuri." He always carries such amusement in his voice when he speaks of Yuuri. Yuuri folds up his collar in defense. "I'm curious, that's all. Was it Minako that taught you?"

It was; Minako insisted it would aid with his strength and agility when he was still in juniors. It seems Yuuri never forgot the moves -- though thinking now, he can't remember any of them. 

"Yes," Yuuri says, and tugs at his collar to hide his mouth.

"Aha," says Viktor, matter-of-fact.

Yuuri casts his eye to the ground, then risks a shy sidelong glance. Viktor is still smiling. Yuuri wonders if he means to.

"Why do you ask?"

Viktor smiles wider, as though the times when Yuuri knows him well enough to see through his smokescreens bring him joy. "Well," Viktor says, fingers finding something on the ground to play with. "I think, on reflection, it has helped you. As your program grows more refined, I see moments when you remind me of..."

Viktor stops and stares out over the ocean. His fingers tap a rock against the sidewalk between them. "I wonder if I tell you often enough how far you've come," he mutters to the seas.

Yuuri thinks Viktor said it more to himself than to him, as though a note on his own coaching, so he turns to the water in the midst of warm silence and stares with him at the breaking waves.

  


  


  


  


"Let me tell you something."

Viktor is walking Yuuri backward, a hand at his hip. His other hand moves; takes off Yuuri's glasses and folds them carefully atop the nearest surface, his feet kicking Yuuri's back one after the other.

"You are really something, Yuuri." Viktor divests him carefully of his clothes. "You are a true spectacle. You want people to watch you when you dance? They are watching. _I_ am watching: every movement; every muscle."

Yuuri's back hits gentle against the wall. He holds at Viktor's neck, at his back; his eyes close, a sound breaking from his throat. "You are something," Viktor says, slipping his hands hot over his waist. "You are -- _amazing._ Like nothing I've seen before." As he strips his shirt over his head, Viktor traces his fingers along the skin of Yuuri's arms. 

"But I think you are forgetting something," he says. "It is that _I_ am King of _Eros_ here." 

His knuckles drag soft over Yuuri's skin; Yuuri's arms wrap back around his neck. He tilts Yuuri's chin up, Yuuri's lips part; his eyes fight to focus on Viktor's, taken in by the ease of his charm. 

"You work very hard," Viktor murmurs. "I see that. I respect it. But all of that began with me -- did it not?" He leans in; braces his hands at Yuuri's hips, and Yuuri pulls Viktor down and wracks his fingers through that beautiful hair. 

"I am your coach, Yuuri," Viktor mutters against his lips. "Let me show you how it's done."

Fingertips at his jaw, Yuuri nods.

Viktor does.

  


  


  


  


"Tell me something," Yuuri says. 

His voice has been run low in that way that Viktor likes and Viktor's fingers splay at Yuuri's jaw; his legs bend around his waist. Viktor raises his chin and smiles; Viktor is always smiling when he looks at him. The sheets wrap at their hips with no need for anything more. It is December, but Yuuri must still be warm from practice, or from Viktor. 

Yuuri drags his thumb at Viktor's lips and lets himself be pulled in. "Anything," Viktor murmurs, beneath his touch.

"When is it your hair turned grey? You are very young to look so old."

Viktor's expression flattens; his hands fall away.

Yuuri's eyes grow wide with panic. "Oh -- no!"

"Yuuri..."

"I meant it as a compliment!! It's beautiful -- shining silver, like the coldest form of snow, I--"

But Viktor is smiling again, he only laughs; he wraps his fingers against Yuuri's spine. "You have a way of making me worry for my looks, Yuuri. Should I be dyeing it, so I look young enough for you?"

"No!! Please don't, I--"

"I was blonde once. Should I return to it? Ginger, perhaps?"

Viktor is teasing him, and Yuuri will only take so much of that. He steels his jaw and holds hard at Viktor's face -- drops his voice to that range Viktor likes. "Don't you touch a strand."

Viktor laughs, in a way, sound breaking in his throat; he buries his face in the crook of Yuuri's neck. His breath is so warm, his mouth whole at Yuuri's skin, and Yuuri wraps his arms around his shoulders; holds them close and still together.

He is lucky. _Lucky_ doesn't cover it.

"Maybe it was the stress of training," Viktor says, halfway through pressing a line of kisses at his collar. "Hard to say. I was 14 when the pigment changed. There was concern I was doing too much, but my performance was excellent, so…" He shrugs. "Yakov felt it contributed to my look. I have never bothered to change it."

"Good," Yuuri says, and strokes his fingers through it. "You won't change it. It's my good luck charm."

"For you, Yuuri," Viktor says, and kisses at his jaw, behind his ear; brushes Yuuri's hair away from his brow and finds his mouth, wanting. "Anything."

  


  


  


  


In the end, Yuuri wins silver at the Grand Prix Final.

"It matches the colour of your hair," Yuuri says cheerfully, holding the medal up to Viktor's face. They are walking out of the arena, arms thrown around the other. "Maybe it was fate?"

"Fate," Viktor says, and laughs -- warm, full, _proud_. "Perhaps I should dye it gold after all."

  


  


  


  


Viktor does dye it, once; as a joke, he says.

It takes Yuuri four full days to recover, and longer still before he'll speak to him again.

  


  


  


  


Viktor is tired; he has practiced seven hours, then asked Yuuri to do the same. 

"Yuuri!" he bites. "Listen to what I am telling you!" He claps his hands to the beat of the music; punctuates each one with a vocalization, "AH ah ah, AH ah ah, AH ah ah, AH, AH, AH, AH. Understand?"

Yuuri stands on the ice and watches him, lips parted; then he nods, and pushes off to complete exactly what it is that Viktor wants. 

It is one of those things that's hard to explain. Yuuri couldn't put words to it if his life depended on it, but in that moment: he had looked at Viktor and understood. For all they struggle with miscommunication -- in the end, it seems, they always find a way to meet.

He looks at Viktor from the other side of the rink, at the curve of his mouth, and smiles.

"Good," Viktor says, voice resounding around him. "Again."

Yuuri does it again and again, then again, for as long as Viktor asks.

  


  


  


  


"Yuuri," Viktor croons. Yuuri looks up to see him shouldering in through the front door, jewelry box in hand. "I have something for you."

"Oh?" Yuuri says, turning to face him. He is barely awake, still in his pyjamas, and when registers -- really _registers_ \-- the box in his hand, his jaw falls open. "Viktor…"

Without a second's hesitation, Viktor drops to one knee in front of him. "Something to commemorate your recent performance," he says, mouth quirking.

Yuuri's heart _pounds_. 

He can't -- _believe_ , among other things, that Viktor would choose a moment like _this_ to do… _this_. Yuuri isn't even _dressed_ , his hair isn't combed, and are they really going to make this official -- now? Was it not... official already? Why have they never spoken about this more openly before, why do they never _talk_ about anything? Why must they always communicate in grand gesture, only for Viktor, now, to turn all they've ever done up on its head and--

"Yuuri," Viktor says, eyes dancing; "it seems dishonest to allow you to wear a ring that does not reflect what we are."

"Viktor," Yuuri says. He can hardly hear for the beat of his heart. "What--?"

Viktor slides the ring off Yuuri's finger and sets it aside. He opens the jewelry box, and the ring inside is--

Silver.

Yuuri looks at it, and then up at Viktor's face; at the mischief sparking at the corners of his eyes, at his mouth. 

"You, for example," Viktor says, "are a silver medalist. And I being, of course, a _gold_ medalist…"

Yuuri's expression falls abruptly flat.

"I bought something for myself, too." He slips the silver ring onto Yuuri's slackened finger and reaches into his pocket. "That is to say, some _things_ ; I figure, since you will not be needing your gold ring anymore, I will add it to my collection--"

"Viktor!"

"And then wear three more gold rings -- that's five, one for every gold medal I have won--"

"Oh for--"

"There," he says, and shows off his hand, fully adorned with five gold bands. "Now everyone will understand!"

"You are impossible!" Yuuri says, fists bunching.

Viktor grins, looks Yuuri dead in the eye; throws himself onto his back, and _laughs_. 

Yuuri watches him. He looks at the way he's clutching at his stomach and the way tears spark at his eyes with mirth, and for a long moment he can't figure out if he wants to throw him into the cold Russian night or if he's ever loved him more.

In the end he throws himself overtop of him, pinning Viktor's wrists to the floor.

"You think you're funny?!" Yuuri shouts in his face, the smile twitching stubbornly at his lips. "You think you're so funny? Let me tell you something, Viktor. I am going to win _gold_. I'm going to beat your every world record and take those rings from you by gradual measure. Are you listening? Pay attention to me!"

"I am," Viktor says, wheezing. His hands open and close, empty, wanting, where Yuuri's pinned him by the wrists. "I'm listening, sweet Yuuri."

"And I will deserve all of it and more for putting up with _you_!"

"I understand," Viktor says, elated. "It is natural for you to want to be as good as me, Yuuri. It does not make it so."

"I'll make it so," Yuuri says, leaning harder against him; and Viktor only thrills with laughter and leans up and kisses him, sound dying in his throat. 

It's all Yuuri can do to hold him there, entwining his fingers with each and every one of Viktor's so arrogantly adorned, until he manages to claim back his rightful ring -- and slip it back on his finger before Viktor can find it in him to fight him off.

  


  


  


  


Viktor returns every one of the rings, of course, except the ones Yuuri bought for them. Those ones remain where they ought to be.

"Ask me to marry you properly, next time," Yuuri mutters when Viktor sets off back to the jewelers.

"Why bother," Viktor says, and twirls his way out the door, "when we've already agreed?"

  


  


  


  


Viktor's lips at Yuuri's jaw: "Let me tell you something."

Viktor's long since undressed him and pulled him close, for Yuuri had been trying to out- _eros_ him, and that -- more than anything -- always set him aflame. Wrapped around him, Viktor mouths at Yuuri's throat and sets his hands to work; strokes his long fingers in seductive lines until Yuuri is shivering, wanting more. Yuuri throws his head back and buries his hand in Viktor's perfect hair, those beautiful locks; Viktor's mouth pulls a dragging sound out of Yuuri's throat.

"Half of it is anticipation," Viktor tells him, seeming to be about to brush at his throat before touching his back with his other hand. 

As though agreeing, Yuuri _groans_.

This is how Viktor manages always to surprise his audience; this is how he delivers, every time. There is something in the fluidity of his motions that makes Yuuri unsure quite where he'll land. When he does make his intentions known, Yuuri is as enraptured as if he were dancing.

Viktor always has intoxicated him in just such a way. Yuuri has learned it is not limited to the ice. So if, in the end, Yuuri does learn a thing or two from him about _eros_ \--

" _Yuuri,_ " Viktor whispers, nosing his way along his collar.

\--he suspects Viktor has done the same.

  


  


  


  


Viktor looks up from where he's been staring out over the water when Yuuri arrives, and he smiles as though glad, never bothering to ask how Yuuri knows where to find him. 

"Sweet Yuuri," he says, when he comes near. 

Yuuri leans in when Viktor casts his arm around his shoulders and smiles himself at the brush of Viktor's lips at his brow. "Tell me something," Yuuri says, when they've stood a while.

He lets Viktor kiss his forehead again; lets him hold, as though deriving life from him, from this. "Anything," he says.

Yuuri leans over the rail as Viktor sets him free again. "You tried to tell me, once, about your first lover."

"Ah." Viktor nods. "Now you would like to know."

"I would like to know... _more_. I--"

They have been in Russia five months, and Yuuri has never heard Viktor mention his family.

Viktor raises his chin, as though hearing the sentence Yuuri hasn't said. "I have never spent time in anything serious," Viktor tells him, "before you. You know that I am very popular--"

"Yes," Yuuri says flatly.

"--and so it has not been difficult for me to find attention when I seek it." Viktor smiles. "My first lover was an old friend of mine; a skater. Tall, dedicated." He shrugs. "Too close-quartered. We parted ways when our paths began to cross too much; when Yakov found out and reminded me to stay focused."

Yuuri stares at him. "Too close-quartered? But -- _this_ is not?"

Victor only smiles, fond as ever. "You are different."

"How?"

"You simply are."

They both look at the water a while, the wind ruffling at Yuuri's growing hair.

"There have been a few since then," Viktor continues. "You have met only one -- Christophe."

Yuuri nods. He'd expected that. "You get along."

"As I say, it was never serious. With Christophe, sex appeal is much more of a game. That suited me for a time."

"But you--" Yuuri cuts off, embarrassed; he looks out over the water.

Viktor folds his hand over his, where it wraps around the rail. "I prefer _you_ ," he says. 

Yuuri's head snaps up; Viktor is laughing with him, always laughing. "It was apparent from that first banquet, Yuuri, how seriously you would take me. And I have never stopped thinking about it since. Is that answer enough?"

Yuuri nods in subdued awe, lips parting as Viktor brushes at his hair. "I think so."

"Good," Viktor says, and kisses him just once, warm, on the lips. "Let's go in. I'm cold."

  


  


  


  


Yuuri skates in a tight spread-eagle turn and throws a hand over his eyes.

"Yuuri," Viktor scolds, hands balling at his hips. "You have to _trust_ me."

"Can't we take a break?"

"No."

"I am not used to being thrown around. I am used to _control_ \--"

"And you are expert with it. I am telling you to direct it where it counts."

Yuuri is embarrassed again, but of what he can't tell. He rubs at his brow and looks down at his skates. When he looks up again he sees Viktor looking at him in that careful way, a pensive finger tapping at his chin. 

"All right," he says. "Try this."

Viktor pushes off toward him and places his hands at Yuuri's waist, delicate; skates forward, pushing Yuuri backward, holding him steady until he's wooed into pulling his weight. Viktor sets a palm at his cheek and guides him, holding his eye, without Yuuri looking beside him or to the ice or at anything but him. The farther they go -- the pinker Yuuri can feel his ears becoming -- the happier with him Viktor becomes.

"Trust me, Yuuri," he murmurs, palm at his cheek. "Close your eyes."

Yuuri does.

Viktor coaxes him through the movements; skates him around the ice with hands at his hips, fingers brushing at his shoulder, guiding, at his neck. Soon Yuuri comes to visualize the rink, learns to turn without Viktor guiding him; they pick up speed; Yuuri can hear Viktor in quick pursuit, hears the edge of his skates shaving at the ice, never flagging, always within arm's reach. He meets Yuuri's hand with his own when Yuuri reaches for direction, muttering soft directives to keep him on track. 

It's not long before Viktor is coaxing him into turns, a gentle lift, Yuuri's eyes closed all the while.

Viktor will guide him, Yuuri knows: he will catch him if he stumbles. Yuuri pours all of his trust into the fact that Viktor Nikiforov is a razor's edge behind him, always looking out for him; always wanting him to be the best he can be. He folds himself into it, gives himself over completely to the direction of his hands; and when Viktor pulls him out of a spin, leaving Yuuri draped over the arm Viktor's put at his back, Yuuri clenches his fists in Viktor's collar and doesn't let go.

"There," Viktor says. He's leaning over him, breath hot on his lips. "Now you have something to think about when you aren't sure what to do with your precious _control_."

Yuuri's fingers travel up and into Viktor's hair. "I prefer to look at you," he says, but his voice is half-worn.

"Then look at me, Yuuri."

He opens his eyes, and Viktor catches the tear before it hits the ice.

  


  


  


  


"Tell me something, Viktor."

Viktor cranes his neck to look up at him from where he's splain on the bed. Viktor is reading; Yuuri is propped against the pillows and scrolling through his phone, and from the cushion of Yuuri's hip Viktor looks delighted just to see him.

Yuuri cards his hand through Viktor's hair; bunches its silver strands in his fist.

"Will you still marry me?" Yuuri asks. "If I don't win gold?"

Viktor stares at him, as though trying to decide if he's speaking from a place of insecurity or practicality. Then he flips to his stomach. "Which one?" he asks, setting his chin atop his fists.

Yuuri blinks, confused. "What?"

"Do you mean the Grand Prix Final? The World Championship, the Four Continents?"

Yuuri stares. Viktor frowns.

"If you do not intend to win any of them, Yuuri," Viktor scolds, tone turning firm at a pin's drop, "I am concerned about your commitment."

"I'm committed," Yuuri tells him hastily. "I am."

Viktor nods curtly and throws himself onto his back at once. His fingers curl at Yuuri's leg; Yuuri has the impression the conversation is finished. "Then there is no problem," he says, and returns to his book.

It's one of those times when Yuuri feels awash, swept away by Viktor's certainty. He looks down to see the glint of the ring on Viktor's finger where it wraps at his thigh; sees the gold of his own ring tensed at Viktor's scalp.

Yuuri lets go of his hair and presses the tip of his finger at the top of his head. "How will you manage when I beat you as World Champion?" he mutters.

"I expect I shall kiss you directly on the mouth," Viktor says, without delay. "And then I shall train yet harder."

"Good," Yuuri says, and returns to his phone. 

Then, for a while, they don't say a thing.

  


  



End file.
